


The Last Straw

by mhunter10



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Hurt, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, This is not Happy, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhunter10/pseuds/mhunter10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian falls from an incredible height into a black abyss.</p><p>*trigger warnings*</p><p>if you want to read something happy, this is not it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Straw

Ian jerked awake to the sound of his cellphone buzzing next to him on the old mattress he called a bed. His head was pounding and his mouth tasted awful. There was an acrid smell nearby him and he suddenly remembered spewing his guts in the middle of the night...or sometime during the day. He wasn't sure. It was dark now. He'd been sleeping all day, unable to get up or even move. His full bladder pulled at his insides, but he wasn't worried about it. Why wasn't he worried?

He stared at the number on the screen then opened it and held it up to his ear.

Yelling.

It was his boss.

He's late for work. It's now the fourth time he hasn't shown up at all.

Where the hell is he?

What's the matter with him?

If he doesn't get his muscular ass down there now and into some shorts, he's fired.

No more chances.

He closes the phone and it slips from his hand and onto the floor.

He lays back down and stares up at the tent canvas above him, not really seeing anything at all.

His eyes can't seem to adjust in the dark or focus.

He puts his fingers to his face and feels dry blood under his nose.

He's knows that's what it is.

Something else that must have happened while he slept.

It was probably all over the sheets and himself.

It wasn't the first time his nose had protested to just one more line.

It was always the feeling of one too many that he loved, though. The burn of pure power racing up his nostril and through his system, coursing through his veins and making his body feel alive and dead. He learned quickly that ecstasy was only good if you wanted to feel the crash. He needed something harder, if he didn't even want to notice...or be conscious for it.

He woke up in someone else' bed almost every morning, not remembering who stuck what where until he moved. Sometimes there was just one guy next to him, and sometimes it was four. The next night it would all happen again: the drinking, the drugs, the partying, the sex. He hadn't actually been back to his squat in a week. It was lonely and cold. He could hear rats in the walls and he wondered if they would eat him alive in the night. He was more afraid of them when he was floating in the sky. The cockroaches always terrified him, no matter what he was on.

Then he started to say no.

He started to not go.

He didn't want to, but they would make him anyway on some nights; pushing him into someone's car and introducing him to something that would make him "feel better".

But it would only work for a while, and then he wasn't fun anymore.

What happened to him?

Why was he being like this?

He just wants attention.

He thinks he's better.

He put one of them in a choke hold until they were turning blue, just as a joke, laughing when they started to go limp in his arms.

Fuck, that got him in trouble.

He didn't know what happened, why he did it. He just did.

Now he wasn't allowed back.

He was shunned.

He was unpredictable and crazy.

He couldn't handle what was in that needle between his toes.

He stole pills now.

Any kind, whatever would give him just enough of feeling nothing, the right amount of numbness.

He couldn't remember the last time he fell asleep on his own.

The stale vomit smell was getting to him.

The leftover taste of copper in his throat.

His tongue felt like a fuzzy weight in his mouth.

He held his hands out and saw how they shook.

He realized he was sweating, so he threw his blanket off of him.

He sat up and his head spun. The abandoned room whizzed around in his vision, as he ran his fingers through his greasy hair.

He hadn't showered since the last time he had a shift. His odor hit him, but he couldn't think of that right now.

Right now he wanted a thin pile of whiteness.

He picked up his kit, already set up from before he'd passed out.

It looked lonely, but he just wanted the one.

Just needed the one right now, so he could go back to wishing no one would ever find him.

No one cared.

They didn't.

It would always be like that.

He found the piece of cut straw and put it to his nose.

He didn't want to see himself in the small mirror, as he snorted in his coping, so he closed his eyes.

Ian's phone was buzzing again, a different number.

A number he'd thought about and ignored so many times it made his heart burst inside his chest.

He held his other nostril and breathed in.

It burned and irritated and didn't go down smooth at all.

It hurt.

But the pain was nothing like the walls of the deep hole he was in scraping against he back, as he slid down them and gave up on getting back out.

He didn't want to get out.

He wanted to go away.

He let the last straw fall from his hand.

Ian fell back on his bed and closed his eyes to it all.


End file.
